Willy Wonka
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, AU. Oneshot. Daryl had never seen Willy Wonka before, but he was sure it was going to be the best play in the history of summer theater. Rated for Dixon language.


**AN: This is for therealsonia that wanted a one shot with "Summer Theater" in it. It's just for fun and it's absolute and unapologetic fluff. Nothing more. Don't take it too seriously.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead. I also own nothing from Willy Wonka.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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A job was a job. If it paid, Daryl wasn't too good or too proud to do it. Some of his buddies had given him hell when he'd applied for, and later accepted, the job to build sets for the summer theater camp that was run out of the local college, but it paid well enough and it wasn't that hard. Plus, it was a job working indoors and that was a hell of a lot better than sweating his ass off in the heat of the Georgia summer sun for a while.

So what if he was building sets and putting any artistic skills he had to work painting trees that looked like lollipops and creating other fantastical and crazy landscapes for a production of Willy Wonka? At least he was getting a paycheck out of it and it was an honest one. It was better than could be said for two-thirds of the assholes that would give him shit about it.

Of course, the woman leading the summer theater camp didn't exactly make it suck to work there. She wasn't, as Daryl's brother would say, too damn hard on the eyes.

Carol McAlister was widowed or divorced. Daryl wasn't sure which exactly and it didn't matter. He knew enough from town gossip to know that she'd had an asshole husband and was better off to be without him—one way or another.

She was, as was Daryl, middle aged by society's standards. Of course, given some piss poor decisions in both of their pasts, their true "middle age" could have just as easily been anywhere from ten to twenty as it was fifty.

She had a daughter that was thirteen or fourteen. Sophia was the age of being all knees and elbows and rolling eyes. She was also playing one of the kids in the play, but Daryl wasn't sure which. They hadn't been in costume yet and, even though he'd overheard some rehearsal while he worked, he hadn't exactly paid close attention.

At least, he hadn't paid close attention to the kids or their play.

He'd paid enough attention to their teacher, though.

Carol was an English teacher at the local high school and picked up the occasional class at the college. Every summer she did the theater camp for local children to participate in instead of getting bored and resorting to some kind of trouble to fill idle time. It was a good program. Though he'd rather choke than admit it out loud to some of his acquaintances, Daryl almost wished that such a program had existed when he was growing up. Though he might not have been into the singing and dancing around, Daryl thought he might've liked doing some of the behind the scenes work—much like he was doing now—even back then. Such a program might've even helped keep a kid like his brother, Merle, stay out of juvy a little more than he had.

It was all drawing to an end now, though. Daryl's work was almost done and the show would go on that weekend. The kids would run three shows—a Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday afternoon show—before they'd call it a day and hang up their acting hats for another school year.

The play over, the job done, and the paycheck deposited, and Daryl would return to picking up small jobs here and there to get him through to the next job. He already had something lined up with a buddy who was over-seeing construction on a new little housing community that was going up. Carol, he assumed, would be getting ready to go back to her classroom.

He probably wouldn't see her again—at least not until next summer. He was pretty sure he'd done a good enough job bringing all her requests to life to guarantee that he could get the job again if he wanted it—and he wanted it. He might not be comfortable explaining, even to himself, why he wanted it, but he wanted it.

Friday morning, not long after the sun came up, Daryl let himself into the small studio area where they'd let him work. Everything had been cleaned up—all evidence of his sawing and painting—but every piece he'd put together was there. Everything was there, that was, that he hadn't already moved over to the theater. There were only a few pieces left. He propped open the doors and carefully carried the last pieces out to his truck. He wrapped them in the tattered old sheets that Carol had brought for him to use, and he loaded them up. He closed up the studio area and locked it one last time, checking the lock three times to assure himself that it was secure.

Then he drove the pieces over to the theater and unloaded them there.

They were getting the theater ready. Daryl could hear the hum of a vacuum as he entered the building. He could hear, echoing somewhere, some hushed voices. The first show would take place tonight—after a dress rehearsal that would end early enough for everyone to have a little down time before the curtain went up—and everything had to be ready to welcome in the public whose donations and ticket fees were the one thing that kept the little summer theater camp going every year.

The main area of the theater had already been cleaned, but they were busy in the other parts. Daryl spoke to a few people as he walked past, carrying one of the last of the lollipop trees that was almost as big as he was, and he let himself into the main auditorium. He slipped down the side runway to the door that would take him back stage. He maneuvered the tree down the tight little hallway, came out onto the stage, and lined the tree up with the tape "X" that had been placed on the rolling cart where he was balancing the lollipop forest. From his belt, he produced the hammer and the little roll of nails that he'd been carrying around for a couple of days. He nailed the tree down into position and stood up to test its sturdiness. By his design, the sets were all mobile—and easy enough to move that anyone could do it with little effort—so that they could be changed out quickly and easily as the production took place.

He repeated his efforts until the last of the pieces was as it should be, and then he backed up to the edge of the stage to stand and admire his efforts.

He wasn't an artist, but he didn't think he'd done half bad. There were several sets—all a little whimsical even when they were the more somber of the backdrops—and each of them, alone, seemed like a little world that you could get lost in. He was sure that, adding in the acting and the songs—the real meat of the production—the sets would pop and really come to life.

He was prouder of himself, probably, than any grown man should be over such a silly little job.

But it was a job, and it paid well enough.

Except it wasn't the money that would bring Daryl back the next summer—even if he would say that it was.

Behind him, the sound echoing in the empty auditorium that might as well have been filled with ghosts that were waiting to be entertained, Daryl heard a clap sounding out. He jumped when the sound first started, assuming himself to be alone, and then he turned to seek out the source.

Coming down the middle walkway of the auditorium, issuing the solid and slow clap, was Carol. She was dressed in the customary jeans and t-shirt ensemble that she'd worn all summer. She was smiling at him.

"It looks good," she said, approaching the stage. "Better than good, it looks wonderful."

Daryl smiled to himself.

"It'll do, I reckon," he responded, glancing back at his handiwork once more.

"So that's it?" Carol asked. "Everything's here now?"

"Everything's here," Daryl said. "Set the ropes for the fly system yesterday—but I wanna check it again. You know? Just one last run through. I don't want nothing falling and knocking someone out because the fly kid dropped it too fast and didn't realize the marks were off."

Carol laughed to herself and shook her head.

"We wouldn't want that," she said. "You didn't have to come in this early, though. There's still plenty of time."

"Don't sleep much in the mornings," Daryl admitted. "Don't sleep much hardly ever. Figured—I might as well come in. That way you wouldn't get worried. You'd know I wasn't going to leave you hanging."

"I never would've thought that," Carol said. "Can I come up? Have a look?"

Daryl waved his hands at her, ushering her to join him on the stage.

Carol walked around the stage and came up the side steps. She walked straight back and examined the sets carefully like she'd never seen them before—like she hadn't come by his studio nearly every afternoon to oversee everything that he was doing and make constant suggestions for changes here and there. Out loud, Carol admired his work and praised him for the pieces that had turned out, according to her, better than she'd ever even imagined they might.

And then, inspection done, she walked over to stand near Daryl.

"So from here," Carol asked, "where do you go?"

Daryl glanced upward and nodded his head in that direction.

"Up to check the fly system," he said.

Carol smiled.

"I meant—after that," Carol said.

Daryl shrugged.

"Home," he said. "Start a new job on Monday. Gonna help put the houses up in that new development."

"I thought Tyreese Williams was heading that project," Carol said.

Daryl hummed and nodded his head.

"He is," Daryl responded. "Friend of mine. Always got a job for me if he's got a job. Not bad to work for and he pays fair."

"I know his wife," Carol said. "She—helped me through my divorce. But, more than that, I guess you could say we're friends now."

Daryl smiled to himself.

"Met her a couple of times," he said. "Good type to have as a friend. Better'n most."

"I guess we'll be seeing each other?" Carol asked. "Around town?"

"Might," Daryl said. "Grocery store. Here or there. Don't speak if you don't got an inclination, though. I won't—think nothing of it. I mean..."

But he didn't finish it because _he_ wasn't even sure what he meant. It was a lie from start to finish and he wasn't even sure what had possessed him to launch into it. Carol dismissed the whole thing, though.

"Of course I'll speak," Carol said. "And—I'd expect the same from you. You might not think anything of it, but it would—hurt my _feelings_ if you saw me somewhere and didn't speak to me."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Wouldn't do that," he said.

"And neither would I," Carol shot back.

Daryl nodded and hummed his opinion that it was settled then. He swallowed against a dryness in his throat—the parched feeling of not having a single idea what to say but feeling like he didn't want to stop talking because, once that was done, he had to walk away from Carol and lost every pretext he had to speak to her— _really speak to her_ —for at least another year. He drew the hum out, repeating it like a jackass, just to keep it going.

And thanks to someone who was looking out for him, Carol saved him from his own stupidity by speaking again.

"I put your name in the program," Carol said. "Daryl Dixon—set design and construction."

Daryl felt his cheeks burn a little warm.

"You didn't have to do that," he said.

"I did," Carol said. "And I wanted to. You did a wonderful job on this. On the whole thing. And people deserve to know who built them. Besides—it might even get you some business. Shows you have a lot of talent."

Daryl cleared his throat and shook his head, but he had no more to offer than he'd had before. This was the reason he hadn't said anything meaningful to her all summer. It was the reason that he hadn't gone through with what he'd imagined, more than once, while driving to work. He hadn't asked her to lunch or even coffee. He could barely speak around her—and he was pretty sure that he knew the answer that she'd give him.

He reminded himself of that. And he reminded himself that, standing there staring at her, he wasn't going to get any braver—and she had things to do. She couldn't entertain his ass all day long. He forced himself to break his own trance.

"I'll check the fly system," he said. "Got the keys to the studio in my truck. I can—give 'em to you now or...later."

Later might give him at least one last chance to find his balls—he was sure he had them somewhere. It was all a matter of, as his brother would say, figuring out where the hell he dropped them along the way.

"What about this weekend?" Carol asked. "Tomorrow night?"

Daryl stared at her. He shrugged.

"Yeah," he said. "I mean—yeah. I can give 'em to you tomorrow night. If that's what works for you. Swing by here before the doors open and drop 'em off."

The corners of Carol's mouth curled up slightly.

"Or," she said, drawing the word out much longer than a two letter word had any business being, "you could—bring them by my house. 414 Pecan Grove."

Daryl swallowed and nodded.

"I could do that," he said. "414 Pecan."

"Around six?" Carol asked. "And—maybe while you're coming you could...wear something nice? Pick me up? I'll be in the audience and—I have an extra ticket. I wouldn't mind the company."

"You mean like a date?" Daryl asked.

Carol shrugged.

"I mean like—two people who put a lot of work in to a play watching it all come together," Carol said. Daryl's stomach sunk a little. It was the first indication he had that, without even realizing it, he'd become hopeful about Carol's intention with the invitation. A brief pause of silence fell between them as Daryl searched for a way to respond to her offer. Carol spoke again before he got the chance. "Or—I guess you could call it a date," Carol said.

Daryl's stomach responded to that statement as much as it had to the one before. He chewed at his lip and nodded his head.

"Yeah," he said. "I could do that. Wouldn't mind seeing the thing—since I been listening to it all summer. Pieces here and there."

Carol smiled.

"Good," she said. "It's a date. But..." Daryl raised his eyebrows at her, trying to hide his concern over the threat of a turn. "Well, Sophia's going home with Lydia—one of the Oompa Loompas—tomorrow night. And—it wouldn't be much of a date if we didn't—get coffee or something. Afterwards?"

Daryl laughed at himself, mostly in response to his stomach that might never settle again.

"Yeah," Daryl said. "Sure. Except—maybe we don't do coffee?"

"What'd you have in mind?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged.

"Willy Wonka—so hot chocolate?"

Carol smiled and nodded.

"Even better," she said. "Sweet and— _just right_."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Big fan of hot chocolate?" He asked.

Carol shrugged and smiled coyly. She started to walk off—in the direction of the stairs that would take her down the side of the stage—before she responded to him.

"Sure," she said. "If that's what you think I was talking about. See you tomorrow. Around six. Don't forget. 414 Pecan Grove."

Daryl didn't find his voice to respond to her out loud before she'd slipped out a side door. He was pretty sure it didn't matter anyway.

 _And he wouldn't forget._

Daryl had never actually seen Willy Wonka before, but he was already certain it was the best damn play that ever there was.

And his viewing of it would certainly be the sweetest.


End file.
